There has been another update to the story, but it's pretty short.
JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)
18 May.—I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for I must know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of the stairs I found it closed. It had been so forcibly driven against the jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could see that the bolt of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the inside. I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.
A neat little reminder of Dracula's immense strength, and our good friend Jonathan Harker is now 100% sure there are three vampire chicks who want to eat him, but aside from that not much else. Perhaps he took the rest of the day off to curl up into a ball. God knows I would.
Trapped in a castle with four vampires he literally saw eat a baby
"Yep, a spot of trouble."
Last night the Count asked me in the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work here was nearly done, and that I should start for home within a few days, another that I was starting on the next morning from the time of the letter, and the third that I had left the castle and arrived at Bistritz. I would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present state of things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the Count whilst I am so absolutely in his power; and to refuse would be to excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger.
What a fucking dick. Dracula must have at least an inkling Jonathan knows he's being forced to set up his own "disappearance", and he must be relishing in his captive's helplessness.
He knows that I know too much, and that I must not live, lest I be dangerous to him; my only chance is to prolong my opportunities. Something may occur which will give me a chance to escape. I saw in his eyes something of that gathering wrath which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from him.
Interesting to see Dracula getting ticked off, despite Jonathan going along. Maybe he was hoping to see Jonathan squirm a little more, instead of quietly planning on how to work with the crock o' shit he's been handed?
I therefore pretended to fall in with his views, and asked him what dates I should put on the letters. He calculated a minute, and then said:—
"The first should be June 12, the second June 19, and the third June 29."
I wonder why Dracula has pushed out the expiration date to mid-June. Does he have more business to take care of before he can dispose of our blorbo? Does he want to see how long it takes for Jonathan to crack?
Welp, only way to find out is to wait for another update.
We're back with another update of Dracula, but this time we take another break from our good friend Jonathan Harker's exploration of the Horrors and instead return to romance.
Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.
24 May.
My dearest Mina,—
Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.
My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have had three. Just fancy! THREE proposals in one day! Isn't it awful!
Ah, Victorian standards, where a literal teenager is worried that she'll never find love because no one has proposed marriage to her yet. I'll also note how... modern this feels in places. Capital words for emphasis, exclamation points galore, short sentences... barring some antiquated vocabulary this could easily be a bunch of text messages.
As a side note, it's interesting to see that the phrase "it never rains but it pours" is considered an old proverb by someone in 1897. Looks like Morton Salt engaged in some rewriting of history, eh?
I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don't know what to do with myself. And three proposals! But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity.
Lucy really is a sweetheart. Here she is telling Mina about what might be the happiest moment in her life thus far, and she still takes time to express sadness for the men whose hearts she had to break by turning down their proposals.
Also, the orphaned syntax of that last line got me chortling. I'm sure some people are already shipping it.
Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from every one, except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur.
Interesting that we already know whose proposal she accepted, but it's not like it was a surprise considering her effusive adoration of him in prior letters.
Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don't generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream.
Lancets back then were like little switchblades you'd use for bloodletting or the excision of abscesses. Not the tiny little needles they prick your fingers with before you can donate blood.
Anyway, this is honestly a more striking impression of Dr. Seward than when we were first told of him. A doctor at an insane asylum who makes amusing fumbles and nervously plays with a bloodletting knife while he tries to ask out someone he likes? Fujoshis would love this man.
He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said that he was a brute and would not add to my present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if I could love him in time; and when I shook my head his hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared already for any one else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring my confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman's heart was free a man might have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to tell him that there was some one. I only told him that much, and then he stood up, and he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped I would be happy, and that if I ever wanted a friend I must count him one of my best.
You can pinpoint the exact moment this little emo man's heart breaks in half. It is an unusual and positive display of emotional vulnerability for a work like this.
Anyway, Sadboy leaves, and Lucy takes a break from letter-writing because of how emotional it's getting.
Evening.
Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I left off, so I can go on telling you about the day. Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch.
Before we get into this next bit, I find it important to quote this statement made by atundratoadstool on tumblr, for it will deeply enhance your experience.
Imagine if you will a complete inversion of a boorish American on St. Patrick's Day. Imagine an Irishman who aggressively celebrates the Fourth of July with unabashed gusto, who desperately tries to claim the significance of some alleged 1/32 American heritage, who wears a shirt with an eagle turning into an American flag and who drinks a specialty red, white, and blue novelty beverage until he collapses in a pool of tricolor vomit. Imagine some guy so invested in a superficial, touristy version of Americaness that he will nervously call the side with his $20 "authentic" hamburger "freedom fries" out of fear of offending. Imagine a guy who upon meeting any American will try to strike up a friendly conversation by asking them what their favorite gun is and talking about how personally inspiring he finds Abraham Lincoln.
You must understand, as you prepare to read the May 24th entry of this novel, that this Irishman is Bram Stoker.
This is a man who was friends with Teddy Roosevelt. And with that, back to the novel.
He is such a nice fellow, an American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he has been to so many places and has had such adventures. I sympathise with poor Desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured in her ear, even by a black man.
Mr. Quincey P. Morris found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl alone. No, he doesn't, for Arthur tried twice to make a chance, and I helping him all I could; I am not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn't always speak slang—that is to say, he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really well educated and has exquisite manners—but he found out that it amused me to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such funny things.
I do enjoy the added detail of how he plays into stereotypes to amuse people he likes. My friends and I have all done the same with each other.
Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was very nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly:—
'Miss Lucy, I know I ain't good enough to regulate the fixin's of your little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. Won't you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road together, driving in double harness?'
I am dead, and this has killed me. The sheer American-ness of this in what has so far been a gothic horror novel from Victorian England has hit me like horse-kick to the solar plexus. This feels like one of those gags where someone with a completely different art style appears in a cartoon.
Well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn't seem half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward; so I said, as lightly as I could, that I did not know anything of hitching, and that I wasn't broken to harness at all yet.
And then, my dear, before I could say a word he began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very heart and soul at my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall never again think that a man must be playful always, and never earnest, because he is merry at times. I suppose he saw something in my face which checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been free:—
'Lucy, you are an honest-hearted girl, I know. I should not be here speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right through to the very depths of your soul. Tell me, like one good fellow to another, is there any one else that you care for? And if there is I'll never trouble you a hair's breadth again, but will be, if you will let me, a very faithful friend.'
The sheer rizz of this man. Bah God. I don't know how the fuck Lucy manages to tearfully turn him down, but she does, to which he responds:
I was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a light came into his face, and he put out both his hands and took mine—I think I put them into his—and said in a hearty way:—
'That's my brave girl. It's better worth being late for a chance of winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world. Don't cry, my dear. If it's for me, I'm a hard nut to crack; and I take it standing up. If that other fellow doesn't know his happiness, well, he'd better look for it soon, or he'll have to deal with me. Little girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that's rarer than a lover; it's more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I'm going to have a pretty lonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won't you give me one kiss? It'll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. You can, you know, if you like, for that other good fellow—he must be a good fellow, my dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love him—hasn't spoken yet.'
This man handles rejection better than a frighteningly large percentage of people in my generation, even as he asks for a goodbye kiss.
'Little girl, I hold your hand, and you've kissed me, and if these things don't make us friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet honesty to me, and good-bye.' He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a quiver or a pause; and I am crying like a baby. Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on? I know I would if I were free—only I don't want to be free. My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it; and I don't wish to tell of the number three until it can be all happy.
While the internet in me wants to say "one big fuckpile" as a solution, it is quite clear that Lucy only loves Arthur, even if she holds the others dear. She really does have a big heart for someone so young.
P.S.—Oh, about number Three—I needn't tell you of number Three, need I? Besides, it was all so confused; it seemed only a moment from his coming into the room till both his arms were round me, and he was kissing me. I am very, very happy, and I don't know what I have done to deserve it. I must only try in the future to show that I am not ungrateful to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a lover, such a husband, and such a friend.
Meanwhile Jonathan is watching his baby-eating client crawl down the walls like a lizard. Such a contrast cannot be maintained forever, and I worry who'll be caught in the crossfire when the two sections collide.
I gotta autistically info-dump and gush about this change in medium right here. In 1897, the phonograph was a new-fangled technology younger than iPhones are in our time, having only been commercially available since 1888. As such, the technology was remarkably different from what most people imagine when they think of a phonograph.
For one thing, they didn't have discs yet. Commercially available phonographs of the time used wax cylinders, which would be engraved by the needle as you spoke into the horn. That's right, the OG voice recordings didn't even use electricity.
This was a model of phonograph available at the time, and a likely candidate for what our good doctor is using. He'd spin the cylinder with a crank, set the needle in, and speak, all while using a hand fan or little air pump to keep the wax shavings from ruining the recording. Quite the amusing mental image considering what he says into it.
25 May. —Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so diary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing....
Oof, I feel you there buddy. Seward certainly strikes me as a character you could've seen in earlier literature, a man of neurotic extremes in passion, like Victor Frankenstein.
And like Frankenstein, the scientific and ethical rigor of his work is... questionable.
As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was work, I went down amongst the patients. I picked out one who has afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am determined to understand him as well as I can. To-day I seemed to get nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.
I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner of doing it there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep him to the point of his madness—a thing which I avoid with the patients as I would the mouth of hell.
On one hand, kudos for having an iota of self-awareness, something far too many of your peers lacked in this field. On the other hand, this is complete anathema to modern standards of mental health work. This man is a patient, not a test subject. Deliberately playing into his psychoses in order to get a feel for it is no more okay than sticking your finger into someone's bullet wound because you're curious as to how painful it is.
(Mem., under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?) Omnia Romæ venalia sunt. Hell has its price! verb. sap. If there be anything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards accurately, so I had better commence to do so, therefore—
R. M. Renfield, ætat 59.—Sanguine temperament; great physical strength; morbidly excitable; periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish; a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it.
Definitely an odd take. Renfield is ill, not a demagogue, and like the vast majority of ill people he is more a risk to himself than to others. We also see the old trope of mentally ill people having great strength, which has probably resulted in so many of them being shot by police as a 'precaution' that it horrifies one more than the vampire.
As a side note, according to a word-counter site I used, it likely took Dr. Seward a minute and 48 seconds to make this entry. Quite fortuitous- wax cylinders could only record for two minutes.
Anyway, we now move on to someone else.
Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.
25 May.
My dear Art,—
We've told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one another's wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca.
Te Henua ʻEnana, also known by the colonial name of the Marquesas, are an archipelago in Polynesia. Titicaca, a name that I can't say without giggling like a child, is the largest lake in South America, and the highest navigable one in the world, as it lays more than 12,000 feet (3.8 kilometers) above sea level. It's more than 3 million years old and has a species of frog that can't live outside of the water.
Yeah these guys are quite well-traveled, especially considering their youth. Being wealthy probably helps, but still.
There are more yarns to be told, and other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. Won't you let this be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? I have no hesitation in asking you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner-party, and that you are free.
Oh ho ho, looks like our boy Quincey was quick to figure out who'd won the heart of dear Lucy. It's good to see that he's being a bro about it.
There will only be one other, our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward. He's coming, too, and we both want to mingle our weeps over the wine-cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart that God has made and the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes. Come!
I have been trying to find out if Quincey meant the country Korea, which was opening its ports during this time and would be ripe ground for young men who want to travel to new places, and he just said 'the' like how some people still say 'the Sudan' or 'the Ukraine'; or if the Korea was some ship they had all been on or something. Either way, I have no idea how a mopey little doctor like Seward found himself in these places.
Anyway, it is very amusing to see the contrast between how Quincey and Seward have taken Lucy choosing Arthur, and that this campfire is to half celebrate and half keep their buddy from crawling into a sock drawer. It's a very real friend dynamic.
They'll need the friendship in the coming weeks, methinks.
The bromance is real. Also of interest is the use of telegram- a bit of a flex, perhaps? After all, a message this short still probably cost him 9 pence, which would be roughly $15 by modern standards given both exchange rates and inflation. I guess Arthur is riding a bit of a high after his engagement.
After a few days of silence, we finally hear back from our good friend Jonathan Harker, but this update is... an unpleasant product of its times.
JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)
28 May.—There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are encamped in the courtyard.
"Szgany" is an attempt to spell "Țigani", the Romanian slur for Roma. Already off to a fantastic start; let's see where it goes next!
These Szgany are gipsies; I have notes of them in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are thousands of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside all law. They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or boyar, and call themselves by his name.
So it seems like Stoker has created a fictional group of Roma, named after the Romanian slur for them. Lovely. Stoker does manage to get right that for much of Transylvania's history, most Roma were treated better than the neighboring provinces of Wallachia and Moldavia, enjoying lower taxes and exemption from military service thanks to their vital services as metalworkers to boyars; whereas in Wallachia and Moldavia they were enslaved and their culture suppressed.
They are fearless and without religion, save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany tongue.
Ah yes, if it ain't Christian it's superstition. Forgetting that a large number of Roma are some variety of Christian, many of them are Muslim and Hindu, in part because their ancient point of origin is Rajasthan in modern day India.
As for language, Roma often speak the mainstream or trade languages of the areas they live in, but they also have their own languages as well. The Roma languages are Indo-Aryan, part of the same family as Hindi, Urdu, Gujarati, Marathi, etc.
I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them posted. I have already spoken them through my window to begin acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and many signs, which, however, I could not understand any more than I could their spoken language....
I have written the letters. Mina's is in shorthand, and I simply ask Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my situation, but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would shock and frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her. Should the letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my secret or the extent of my knowledge....
I do suppose a letter saying you're being held prisoner by your eccentric client is a bit more believable than a sheet of paper with "L̸͖͕͙̾̿́I̸͍̺̓͆Z̸̻̼̐̽͘͜Ä̸͎̟̻́́̓R̸̠̼͛̿̾͜D̴̢̪̻͆̓͘ F̵̻͍͔̓̈́̈́A̸̢͉͓̾͑͌S̸̫̝͒͐̒H̴̪̻͒̽͜I̵͔̟͋͘͠O̸͕̻̞͊̀̐N̴͍͋̒͜͝" scrawled on it. Still, withholding information from a loved one because you think the shock might be too much is not a good idea, and I'm sure it'll come back to bite them in the butts.
I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted. The man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then put them in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study, and began to read. As the Count did not come in, I have written here....
Something tells me your letters aren't getting sent, Johnny. Even ignoring the far too common tropes of the treacherous Roma, these guys are clearly on good terms with the Count.
The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest voice as he opened two letters:—
"The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they come, I shall, of course, take care. See!"—he must have looked at it—"one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other"—here he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly—"the other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us." And he calmly held letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed.
Oh he is just relishing in Johnathan's helplessness at this point. There was no reason for him to bring Johnathan a 'strange letter' that clearly has nothing to do with him and then burn it right in front of the dude.
Then he went on:—
"The letter to Hawkins—that I shall, of course, send on, since it is yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?" He held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.
This really is Victorian horror, seeing a monster twist and abuse social expectations to torment a poor man. I wonder if he's salivating at the idea of being able to do this shit to everyone he meets in England.
When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been sleeping, he said:—
"So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many labours to me; but you will sleep, I pray." I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.
Our good friend Jonathan Harker graces us with another short update as he deals with the Horrors.
JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)
31 May.—This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself with some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so that I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a surprise, again a shock!
Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda, relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that might be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and pondered awhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made search of my portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my clothes.
This really does have parallels with real life victims of domestic abuse and human trafficking, where the increasing complexities of modern travel means an abuser can take a simple piece of paper and thereby trap someone. In modern times, Dracula could've just taken Harker's phone and passport and that would make things 50x harder for him.
There's also the more supernatural horror aspect of course, in that a bloodthirsty vampire was in Jonathan's room while he was sleeping and he was completely unaware of it. Perhaps he should check for bite marks...
As some last side notes, letters of credit are basically statements from the bank saying someone is good for their money when they make a big purchase. They made traveler versions that essentially allowed someone to withdraw foreign banknotes from correspondent offices in other countries.
The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and rug; I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new scheme of villainy...
Motherfucker even stole his clothes. Would they even fit on Dracula, considering how he's been described as being tall? It definitely has to be in relation to the theft of Jonathan's postage- is he going to disguise himself as our good friend and drop off false letters at post offices, to make it look like Jonathan left the castle?
Or maybe he's such a teaboo he wanted to dress up as an Englishman for a bit. I dunno. All I know is that "this looked like some new scheme of villainy" is entering my vocabulary for small setbacks now. Can't find my shoes? New scheme of villainy. Someone didn't clean the tub after using it? New scheme of villainy.
Dracula updates once again! This time, we return to Dr. Seward's phonograph diary, as he details his work with his patient.
Dr. Seward's Diary.
5 June.—The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get to understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely developed; selfishness, secrecy, and purpose. I wish I could get at what is the object of the latter. He seems to have some settled scheme of his own, but what it is I do not yet know.
It might not be super great as a doctor to think of your patient as having a 'scheme', Jack. It's more important to get your patient comfortable enough that they can express their inner thoughts and desires without fear of judgment or shame.
His redeeming quality is a love of animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I sometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd sorts. Just now his hobby is catching flies.
Hey man, don't judge. I read a story of a man lifting himself out of a deep depression by getting really interested in taking care of hermit crabs. Of course, considering the genre of novel we're dealing with, as well as the time it was written, I have a feeling shit's gonna get weird with these flies.
He has at present such a quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment, he did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter in simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said: "May I have three days? I shall clear them away." Of course, I said that would do. I must watch him.
"Expostulate" means "to use reason to try and dissuade someone", for those who didn't know the word like yours truly. Aside from that, I definitely now think Renfield is gonna do some weird shit with the flies.
Anyway, this marks the last update of Dracula for a few weeks. I'll see y'all then.
After far too long, our good friend Jonathan Harker updates his journal! Sadly, it's once again on the shorter side and continues with the bullshit characterizations of Roma.
JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)
17 June.—This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed cudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding and scraping of horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard.
"Cudgelling brains" means to deeply ponder something, or alternatively to try very hard to remember something you forgot. It's definitely a very quaint term. Usually when I hear "cudgel" and "brains" in the same phrase, it means something... messier.
With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots.
Leiterwagons are rather simple and slender frames that can be connected to each other like train cars, which is ideal for lugging cargo in a mountainous region. Given that each one is being drawn by eight horses, these must be some very long wagon trains.
Also, I found it pertinent to post some photographs of Slovaks from the time period, as to give a face to Jonathan's descriptions.
These people used to be a fairly wealthy population in the Kingdom of Hungary for centuries, with what is nowadays called Slovakia being seen as the second wealthiest region after Transylvania, but the shift to Budapest as the capital caused them to become rather impoverished. As a result, 1.5 million of them emigrated over the course of a few decades, with many moving to America.
I ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through the main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a shock: my door was fastened on the outside.
When your dad has guests over but you're grounded.
Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the Szgany came out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which they laughed.
Joking aside, I'm cudgeling my brains trying to think of something that would actually elicit such a reaction. Did the hetman (which is essentially a prince's military lieutenant) claim Jonathan was mad? An idiot who crossed the very-clearly-a-vampire Count?
Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away.
Christ this would be disturbing to see. It's one of those things that could translate quite well to modernity- how many kidnapping victims have called for help from deliverymen, visitors, passerby, etc and have been ignored? It's a testament to the power of what's "expected" of a person, as well as the power the wealthy can hold over others.
The leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his horse's head. Shortly afterwards, I heard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance.
Well, those boxes are definitely going to become important later. Either Dracula is planning on moving a shitload of his possessions to London with him, or there's something else he needs to bring before he can leave.
As a final side note, it's interesting and disheartening to see Jonathan's descriptions of the locals become meaner as he becomes more desperate. Just a month ago, he was writing enthusiastically about their clothing, their food, their curious ways, but now he describes their behavior as stupid and lazy.
Well, hopefully he'll escape from these dire straits, and the softer side of him will return.
I apologize for the lateness of this particular update, but I've been plagued with responsibilities today. So does, it seems, Dr. Seward. We return to his phonograph diary as he studies the case of Renfield.
18 June.—He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his flies, and the number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his room.
He caught the spider that caught the fly, I don't know why he'd capture a fly, perhaps he's sly.
Also, I hope Dr. Seward is, if not trying to help Renfield stop this strange and unhygienic behavior, at least increasing his rations so his patient doesn't get underweight. Though I have a strong feeling he isn't, because 19th century psychologist.
